


Come Hell or Holy Water

by LeapOfFaith1489



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Canon Compliant, Choosing faces wisely, Episode 6, Getting Together, M/M, Missing Scene, Mostly Fluff, Scene: The Bus Stop (Good Omens), The Switch, What if they switched at the bus stop?, a touch of sadness, prompted by Neil and Douglas's commentary on episode 6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:07:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27683993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeapOfFaith1489/pseuds/LeapOfFaith1489
Summary: At the bus stop, after the averted Apocalypse, an angel realises where is true home is.This story was prompted by the DVD commentary by Neil Gaiman and Douglas MacKinnon: Douglas, our amazing director, was persuaded that Aziraphale and Crowley had switched faces right there, even if Neil didn't quite agree. I was intrigued enough to try and give it a shot.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 87





	Come Hell or Holy Water

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there!  
> It's a very bad mental health day for me today. In the aftermath of an anxiety attack, I lurked in the meanders of my computer and found this oneshot I hadn't quite checked for mistakes yet.
> 
> So I did.
> 
> I'm sorry to present it to you un-betaed, but I need some escapism right now. I hope, despite its flaws, this piece can provide you with some fluffiness, too.

Crowley raises his hand to stop the bus.

“As Agnes said, we have to choose our faces wisely.”

Aziraphale’s knuckles whiten quickly, his fists clenched on the already far-too-crumpled trousers. Between discorporation, soul-travelling, human possession and Antichrist-induced recorporation, his well-worn clothes have had quite a harsh day.

He’s been sitting on this bench with Crowley for a while now. Almost all items on the “post failed-Apocalypse to-do’s list” have been ticked off. Antichrist and company sent back home to their parents: checked. Sword and scales and crown handed back to that kind delivery man: checked. Witch and not-so-computer-savvy boyfriend returned to the cottage; Madame Tracy and Shadwell sent back to London on their scooter, with a little miracle to let them speed through the wreckage of the M25. Checked, and checked.

See? It’s all done and dusted.

The remnants of this averted Apocalypse have been tucked away like crumbs of a less than satisfying meal, cleaned up quickly and thoroughly. What’s left to do, now, if not wash away the bad after-taste with wine? For a subpar variety grabbed at the local Off Licence, this red isn’t at all bad. It burns enough to cleanse the angel’s throat and that will do nicely, thank you very much.

As the bus approaches, Aziraphale hesitates. Shall he leave the bottle on the bench? Littering is not something an angel is supposed to do.

Is he still an angel? And if so, for how long?

He can’t be sure. This emptiness inside doesn’t feel like Falling should. It’s barely some gentle vertigo, a sense of unbalance; he always gets into a similar state when he’s tipsy. Maybe he’s been dancing on the cliff of damnation for far longer than he thought, night after night after night, drunkenly chatting to his only friend in the world in the back-room of the Bookshop. Maybe he’s loved the world too much, and that is enough. The road to a pool of sulfur is paved with misdirected affection. And misspoken words. And misplaced desires.

His halo must have been cracked from the start. Yes, that’s how all these feelings crept in. That’s how the divine Grace seeped out, leaving him empty, in dire need of warmth. Crowley’s body, sitting next to his own in a heap of angles and black clothes, emanates so much warmth right now. And it makes sense, in some way. Crowley is the constant star of Aziraphale’s existence, and things were under control when he could follow him from a distance. But now they are close, so close Aziraphale he’s afraid of burning up if he dares to look at his friend’s face. Thousands of eyes losing their sight in a blaze of glory. What a way for his divinity to go.

The angel barely registers the soft huff of the breaks as the bus stops and opens the doors. He finds he can’t move from the bench.

Many things have gone down in flames, today. His supposed holiness. His faith in Heaven. His home.

_It burned down, remember?_

There’s nowhere to go back to, now.

Aziraphale’s nails dig in his palms. The pain keeps the tears from falling.

The Bookshop. The only place where he’s ever felt safe, at least since Heaven has become less like a place of immeasurable love and more like the embodiment of unattainable standards, with those cold corridors and cruel lights, those low ceilings and impossibly wide spaces. It’s easy to feel a little agoraphobic, there: stunted in one’s growth, while at the same time left unhinged, untethered, with too many possible directions to choose and not a map in sight. Last time he went up there to report to the Archangels, Aziraphale had to remind himself what the mechanical process of breathing was all about. Not like he needed to, strictly speaking. Breathe, that is. But the rhythmic inflating on one’s lungs tends to give one’s comfort, like the subtle boil of the kettle anticipates the pleasure of tea.

Aziraphale never belonged with the other angels. He has always been the odd-ball, the weird one, the defective creature who had never been very good at his job anyway. He accepted that. So long as he could go back to Earth, after all the formalities were cleared, and nestle in his own cosy burrow, filled up with centuries of careful hoarding – parchment, paper, clay tablets, well-loved utensils, annotated thoughts and paraphernalia that he’d once asked the monks in Mogao Caves to keep safe for him. The ceiling was high, in the bookshop, with a glass dome that seemed to reach for the sky, reminding him, at times, of a Gothic church. Humans said that those Twelfth Century cathedrals were striving to reach the Heavens as a vehicle for prayer. Aziraphale’s little dome wasn’t like that, he didn’t think. To him, it felt more like an invitation. As if he’d written in bright glowing letters on his rooftop: _Hello, Lord. It’s me, Aziraphale. Please know You’re welcome in here anytime, whenever you feel like making a social call. We could have tea. I think You’d really enjoy tea. And crumpets! No need to RSPV. My home is your home._

Maybe, the Lord saw Aziraphale’s pride in his own little Alexandria as an unforgivable sin. Why would She have condemned him to lose it otherwise?

It’s gone now. Aziraphale’s small corner of belonging has turned to ashes in the span of one chaotic afternoon, and he should feel grateful that the world didn’t go through the same treatment, really. He is. He promises he truly is.

He just wonders, you know. Is there a universe where the Library gets to survive the great fire? Is there any possible reality where he’s not left adrift in the chaos, oppressed and lost?

_The universe is too vast. I’m not great at finding my footing. Can You please, if it’s not too much to ask, leave me something to hold on to?_

He looks up at the man-shaped being sitting next to him on the bench, on a cool August night, past the edge of an averted Armageddon. Crowley looks at the bus, which has stopped in front of them. The demon’s glasses are a little askew. Aziraphale can see one golden eye, and it’s still like a distant star, a signal fire from the opposite shore.

 ** _We’re on our own side,_** Crowley said a few moments ago.

And oh. Suddenly the angel can see it. A new safe space. One where he could make himself at home. Only one way to go, really. This is the sign he should have followed from the start.

It’s the _we_ , really, that disconcerts him. The word has a foreign taste in his mouth. In all the millennia he’s served Heaven faithfully, he can’t recall one instance in which any angel had said _we_ (“we are going on a family trip to Sodom and Gomorrah!” “We’re perfectly on schedule for Armageddon!” “We thought a multi-nation nuclear exchange would be a nice start...”) and meant something nice. Something comforting and soothing and truly good.

Suddenly, that little word sits next to Aziraphale with arms wide open, and the angel is scared to give in to the promise it carries.

He realises that the bus is still there, and he hasn’t moved for ages. Babbling some flustered excuse, Aziraphale stands up.

“I’m so sorry dear, I’m not sure what got over me. Of course, we should be on the move, this kind sir is waiting for us to...”

The driver’s face looks strangely unblinking.

Before Aziraphale can approach the man and ask if he’s alright, Crowley’s hand wraps around his wrist. So, so gently. The angel gasps. His friend’s touch is unexpected, but not at all unpleasant. Not at all unwanted.

“Angel. Come back here.”

“But... Crowley, the bus...”

“The bus is going nowhere. Sit down, will you?” There’s a pause. The demon’s eyebrows scrunch in that peculiar way that means the cogs inside his brilliant mind are crunching down a considerable amount of worries at impossible speed. “Please? I think I just had an idea to protect ourselves. From, you know. Retaliation.”

“Oh, but my dear...” Aziraphale looks at the humans on the bus, all frozen in their actions. Looking down on bright screens, searching inside purses, cuddling small lap-dogs. One tired-looking teenager crunches down the contents of a packet of crisps, mouth unmoving, crumbles travelling between his teeth.

Aziraphale looks back at Crowley, and feels the impulse to take his exhausted face in his hands. Maybe, if he warms the demon’s skin up with his touch, it will regain the colour he seems to have lost. Maybe he’ll get to see those delightful freckles Crowley gets when he stands too long in the sun.

“You stopped time already today. You must feel wrecked... Whatever your plan is, I’m sure we can talk about it at your place.”

But Crowley’s hand doesn’t let go. It slides down Aziraphale’s sleeve, and their fingers intertwine. Slowly. Naturally. It’s almost as if they spent eternity touching like that (they haven’t. Never once before. The world was reborn today, and this is tangible proof. This gentle locking of digits and rubbing of skin on skin tastes like a whole new horizon.)

“We should swap,” Crowley says, his lips shaking a little. “Exchange vessels, you know. Just for a while, before they come after us. We should try and do it right now.”

“Now?”

“We don’t know what they’re planning. Somebody could be waiting for us at my apartment. Better not risk it.”

Aziraphale blinks. There’s fear in Crowley’s voice. The angel knows the worried downturn of the demon’s mouth far too well: behind the glasses, serpentine eyes are probably scrutinizing the area. Crowley is always so guarded. Now more than ever, he has all reasons to be.

The angel squeezes Crowley’s slender, elegant fingers curling around his stumpy ones. And he thinks: _finally. Here’s something to tether me back to reality_.

Every time Crowley has mentioned before, the concept of _our side_ has always been so fuzzy in his mind. Now he understands. It isn't a place, nor even an idea. It’s two hands lacing together as the storm approaches.

Crowley’s flesh pressed against his own won’t provide shelter, and it won’t avert the trouble that’s about to come crashing down on them. But it helps Aziraphale stand. It gives him something worth fighting for.

The angel sits back on the bench, refusing to let go. The silence sits comfortably between them, inside the small niche of time that the demon carved out of this strange night.

“Why do we always take life-changing decisions on a bench?” he says.

Crowley’s eyebrow arches. “Is that all you have to say right now?”

“Well, we do,” Aziraphale reiterates, with a prim wiggle of his shoulders. Their joined hands rest comfortably on his knee, now. Crowley looks away, with apparent nonchalance; his fingers, though, squeeze Aziraphale’s tighter.

“I can’t recall a bench in Wessex.”

“That was not decision-taking. That was some very good persuading on your part, and some poor attempt to resist temptation on mine.”

Crowley sniffs. Time around them is still frozen.

“You’re not wrong though,” the demon says, “We were sitting on a bench when the Agreement became official.”

Something inside Aziraphale lights up at the memory.

“Yes! Was it 1000 AD?”

“1020. Nobody knew how to party like the old Cnut the Great.”

“Oh, I remember now. We had mead!”

They both scrunch their faces at the memory of the overly-sweet beverage.

“Meh, never been a fan of the thing, but those Lindisfarne monks knew their ways around fermented honey.”

Then Crowley turns to look at Aziraphale, his smile twitching in a mischievous tilt. “Remember? You were so drunk you were trying to explain the concept of the elephant to poor old Cnut... you drew the thing for him on the table, with the ashes from the fireplace.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “A bit of cinder wasn’t the worst thing on that table.”

Crowley positively giggles now, and isn’t it a sight to behold? “Except your elephant sucked. Its trunk and tail ended up knotted with the legs. The whole thing looked like the stuff of nightmares.”

Aziraphale pouts at that. “Excuse me. It couldn’t be as bad as you describe it if the king ended up making a gold brooch out of it.”

“Because it was appalling! The most appalling thing they’d ever seen. Were scared to death of your floppy elephant, I tell you. The Kings of Northumbria ended up using it as a guardian thingy or something, to chase the devil away.” Crowley gives a good chuckle. “People still wonder about the mysterious Beast of Bamburgh, you know. Little do they know it was just the product of a wasted angel and his very bad drawing skills.”

“Well, my drawing skills gained me a spot in a museum. Can you honestly say the same?” They look at each other, hold on to the seriousness just a minute longer, then burst out laughing. It is a beautiful moment, a sound that lifts their cares away and makes the angel’s soul feel younger, as if he’d just been created and freshly appointed Guardian of the Eastern Gate. He used to laugh like that, when the world was new and full of wonders. 

The moment of hilarity falters, leaving Aziraphale’s shoulders more relaxed. Two hands still rest, entwined, on his knee.

Then, Crowley takes off his glasses.

Taken aback from the abruptness of the gesture, Aziraphale forgets to fuss and worry, and just lets himself sink into those eyes, yellow like saffron, like the ochre hills of Provence. _Now that my Paradise is lost and our Earth is saved, would I go to Hell and back for you?,_ he thinks, looking deep into Crowley’s eyes.

The truth speaks simply when the rest of the world is quiet.

_Yes. A thousand times yes, I would._

Aziraphale closes his eyes.

“Go on, then. Let’s give this plan of yours a go.”

He can practically hear Crowley smirk as he leans in. “That’s terribly romantic, angel.”

“Well, I’m sorry the situation urges us to come to terms with a bit of clumsiness. Come on, buck up. I’ll buy you dinner afterwards.”

“The words of a real player.”

“Crowley, are you going to do it or not? If you prefer, I can...”

But his friend’s lips brush his own, right now, and Aziraphale has just enough time to register the touch – the sweetness, the softness, the stirring it causes inside his tempestuous heart – before his Ichor, buried deep at the centre of his ethereal essence, inflames and raises.

It’s a gentle surrender, a tentative touch of natures that were never really meant to meet. They work well together though, against all odds. Like gold and silk, like wind and rain: not quite similar, not truly opposites. Just the same tune played on different scales. Notes producing harmony.

Their essences dance around each other, light and darkness, slyness and harshness, two brands of fear that speak of deep wounds, two minds that travel on a circuit – occasionally on the opposite sides, but unfailingly coming back together. This, Aziraphale thinks, allows their vessels not to reject the other’s soul. Their corporations recognise something familiar in the new host and don’t act up when the soul pours in.

Entering Crowley’s body feels like coming home.

When the point of connection is lost, and Crowley’s lips leave him, Aziraphale fears for a brief moment that it won’t work, it won’t be stable enough, their vessels will realise the trick and rebel, sending a distress signal to both Heaven and Hell.

But all is quiet. And if Aziraphale’s lips get colder for the absence of Crowley’s, his heart doesn’t. The angel’s essence took ownership of this place quite quickly. As if it has always belonged in there.

When Aziraphale opens his eyes again, the world has shifted. He looks at it from a far more slouched position, in a sprawl of limbs that doesn’t feel quite right. He sits up more properly, and finds himself a half-head taller than his friend, who looks back at him with a serene, round face and bright clear eyes.

The illusion of looking in a mirror breaks when Crowley grins. His expression takes over the features of Aziraphale’s corporation, revealing the soul under the mask.

“Hey there,” says Crowley-as-Aziraphale.

“Hello, dear,” says Aziraphale-as-Crowley.

Maybe, just maybe, he still has a home on this Earth. Despite the bookshop being gone. A place – a side, a person, a _heart_ – he truly belongs to. One he’ll fight to defend, come Hell or holy water. They won’t take them apart.


End file.
